


Repeat Offender

by BeautyGraceOuterSpace



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Criminal Activity, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Implied Neglect, Implied abuse, James T. Kirk - Freeform, Jim Need A Hug, Post Tarsus, Tarsus IV, Through the Years, adolescent angst, criminal activity, criminal record
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 08:28:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16193816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautyGraceOuterSpace/pseuds/BeautyGraceOuterSpace
Summary: Finally, more than a mile from home and stumbling over his own feet, he collapsed to his knees in the dirt, dry sobs ripping from his throat as he clutched the dry, prickly strands of patchy grass between his fingers and fought the urge to pummel the earth with his fists.Pushing himself up onto aching feet, he swiped a hand under his nose to remove the sticky string of snot that has trickled out, glancing around until his gaze fell onto a pile of scrap a few hundred yards off. Old rubber style tires, rotting in the heat. Misshapen panels of metal glinting in the sunlight.He was heading toward it before he was aware of moving.





	Repeat Offender

**Author's Note:**

> Ages ago on tumblr, someone asked me if I had any headcanons about Jim's past brushes with the law. This is the result.

It was unseasonably hot for April. The dirt roads were dry and dust flared up at the slightest disturbance of earth in the fields. The stark contrast of the wheat stalks against the mirage warped horizon stretched out in either direction, monotonous and dull, undisturbed save for the driveway leading away from the farmhouse and into the distance. 

The road had remained empty since she left. 

He could feed himself again, now, and the nightmares weren’t as frequent. She’d done her duty and then she’d bailed. Nevermind that he hadn’t spoken more than three words since they arrived back at the house. Nevermind that he woken up in a cold sweat, heart pounding and blood roaring in his ear every night. Nevermind that he had a stash of food hidden in his nightstand that he refused to let anyone near. He wasn’t going to drop dead anytime soon, and that was good enough for her to decide that he was fine. She had barely paused to say goodbye. 

He hadn’t expected anything different. He knew better. Somehow, knowing it was coming still didn’t make it any easier. 

He sat on the buckling steps of the front porch, resting his chin atop his arms, crossed over his knees. Anything to get away from the dull smell of stale beer permeating the air inside; Frank hadn’t lasted long after she’d left. 

Honestly, it was impressive she’d stuck around as long as she had. He had seen her getting restless, anxious to return to the stars, to chasing down the ashes of a man he’d never met and she’d never gotten over across the galaxies. He envied her, if only for her freedom to leave when she wanted. 

He wondered what it was like to be the one leaving rather than the one being left. 

He wondered if he’d ever know.. 

He itched to leave, could feel it like a crawling under his skin, an internal longing for something,  _ anything  _ but here, but apparently 14 was too young to be on your own; that’s what everyone kept telling him. Like he hadn’t  _ been  _ on his own since Sam left. 

Forcing down a scream of frustration, ignoring the tightness in his chest as he gnawed on his lip, he shoved himself to his feet. 

And he ran. 

He ran until he felt like his lungs were going to explode and then pushed himself to run just a bit faster. 

Finally, more than a mile from home and stumbling over his own feet, he collapsed to his knees in the dirt, dry sobs ripping from his throat as he clutched the dry, prickly strands of patchy grass between his fingers and fought the urge to pummel the earth with his fists. 

Pushing himself up onto aching feet, he swiped a hand under his nose to remove the sticky string of snot that has trickled out, glancing around until his gaze fell onto a pile of scrap a few hundred yards off. Old rubber style tires, rotting in the heat. Misshapen panels of metal glinting in the sunlight. 

He was heading toward it before he was aware of moving. 

Clutching one of the tires in his hands, the rubber hot and tacky to the touch, he hefted it as high as he could before swinging his body and throwing it several feet away where it landed with a satisfying  _ thud _ . A cloud of dust rose from the impact, and the tire bounced and wavered before falling flat on its side. He lifted another. 

Once he had worked through the tires, his hands black and clammy with sweat, he turned to the metal, hardly noticing as he sliced his hands and nicked his arms where his sleeves didn’t cover, clutching the edges and bringing the sheets down hard over his knee where they creaked and bent and twisted again and again until they were filled with dents and cracks and he felt just a little bit better. 

He continued through the heaps of abandoned materials, throwing and hitting and kicking and when his hands began to ache from the strain, the cuts stinging from his sweat, he found a metal pole amongst the cast offs and swung it repeatedly into the ruins. 

He didn’t hear the calls for him to stop. He didn’t see the man approaching him. 

But he felt the hand on his shoulder and-- unable to stop the forward momentum from his swing-- spun on his heel in surprise and felt the pole in his hand meet flesh. 

“ _ Shit, _ ” he croaked, chest heaving with panted breaths as the man clutched his middle with a groan. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“Jesus  _ Christ _ , kid-- what the hell is wrong with you?” 

He swallowed heavily, trying to catch his breath. “I didn’t--”

“First you trespass on my property, then you  _ destroy _ half of it--”

“Your--?”

And then Jim saw the blinking of red and blue lights approaching. 

“Shit, look mister, I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“Save it, kid,” the man wheezed, waving off Jim’s attempts to explain that he hadn’t meant any harm, he’d just been so  _ angry _ and then when he’d been caught off guard--

“What seems to be the problem?” the officer asked, approaching quickly with PADD in hand. 

“This little punk was destroying my property!” the man cried, even as Jim opened his mouth to explain, raising his hands in placation only to remember he hadn’t yet dropped the damn pole. 

The officer gave them each a once over, gaze lingering on the metal in Jim’s grasp and the way the man-- who’s name Jim still didn’t know-- held his side tenderly. “Did he assault you?”

“Not on pur--”

“He hit me, but I think I startled him,” he replied, and Jim silently thanked whatever god was listening. “I don’t think he meant to.” 

Jim released the pole slowly. It clattered dully as it rolled several feet across the ground. The officer tracked it as it went. 

“Your name?” he asked Jim. 

“James T. Kirk,” he replied quietly, wiping sweat from his forehead onto his shoulder. The officer input the information into his PADD. 

“And you, sir?” 

“Thomas McLane,” the man replied. 

“Any interest in pressing charges, Mr. McLane?” the officer asked distractedly as he scrolled through Jim’s file. 

For a moment, just a moment, Jim thought for sure Mr. McLane would say no; he eyed Jim sympathetically and Jim did his best to look repentant and confused. But then the officer spoke again: 

“Seems he has a bit of a history, don’t you, Mr. Kirk? Fighting in school-- previous destruction of property--” to Mr. McLane he clarified, “drove his stepfather’s car off a cliff two years back.” 

Jim closed his eyes heavily, resigned to the fact that there was no way around it now. 

It was all a simple mistake. He hadn’t  _ meant _ to destroy anyone’s property; the stuff looked like trash, and there sure as hell hadn’t been a scrap yard here when he’d left. He knew pretty much everyone in Riverside, at least in name, and he’d never heard of any “McLane”. The guy must have moved here while he was away. 

As the two older men discussed the charges that would be pressed against him, Jim found himself looking to the sky. Clouds rolled by lazily and bright sparks of light filled his vision from the glare of the sun. 

What did it matter if it was an accident or not? 

He doubted they’d listen. 

People rarely did. 

The officer carted him home to Frank and outlined his offence and the charges while his stepfather pretended to care. They discussed court dates and fines and Jim pretended he was somewhere else,  _ anywhere _ else but exactly where he was: right back where he’d started with nowhere to go. 


End file.
